Do You Want to Start a Scandal EPB

by Tessa Dare

  “I understand,” she said, trying to mask her disappointment. “I won’t complain if you seem distant or unfeeling when we’re in public. I . . . I’ll just think of myself as working under cover.”

  “No, darling. I can’t risk it. That’s why I mean to resign at once.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Resign?” Charlotte’s face fell. She pulled away from his embrace, leaving him bereft.

  “Yes,” he said. “I must. As soon as possible.”

  “Piers, you can’t. You can’t give it up. The Crown needs you, and you need your work. I’ve seen you in moments of action. That’s when you truly come alive.”

  He touched her cheek. “I come alive with you.”

  “But the challenge, the danger. I know how you enjoy it.”

  “Oh, I’m not giving up either of those.” He smiled. “Love is, by far, the most dangerous thing I’ve ever felt. Marrying you will be like jumping off a cliff. I feel approximately as secure in my ability to deserve you as I do in my ability to fly.”

  “I think you could do most anything. Including the flying.”

  “The truth of it is . . . ever since you walked into my life, my skills have been slipping. To stay in my post would be irresponsible. My instincts are dulled. I’ve missed clear signs of danger. I’m no closer to completing my mission than I was the day I arrived, and I’ve lost any talent for prevarication.” He searched her lovely face. “Why is it I can’t seem to keep anything from you?”

  “Because you don’t want to.”

  He frowned. What she’d said didn’t make sense.

  She’d already destroyed his composure and his defenses. Perhaps she had addled his brains now, too.

  “You don’t want to lie to me,” she repeated. “You’ve been dying to tell someone all your secrets, I think. For whatever reason, you chose me.”

  He looked to the fogged window for a moment, considering.

  Could it be that she was right?

  Maybe some deep, visceral part of him had recognized at once this affinity they shared. Perhaps he’d intuited that he could be open with her. That if a crack in the walls around his heart happened to unleash a flood of guilt or melancholy . . . Charlotte would be too lighthearted to sink, too stubborn to drown.

  If so, it was damn ironic.

  He’d spent the past fortnight in a near-panic, terrified that he was losing his edge. Perhaps he’d worried for nothing, and his instincts were functioning better than ever.

  Maybe he was at the top of his game.

  “But I still haven’t the faintest idea what’s been troubling Sir Vernon,” he said. “I was so certain he must be having an affaire, and that his mistress tried to frighten you off with the monkshood incident. But as of this afternoon, I’m convinced the man is devoted to his wife.”

  “And none of the women on my list matched the clues. They weren’t even consistent. Does she have ginger hair or dark hair? Is she the maid who brought in breakfast, or a lady who buys rich perfume?” She frowned in concentration. “It’s almost as if it couldn’t have been the same person.”

  Piers went still. Something sparked in the corner of his mind. A theory. Then a memory. Within the space of a heartbeat, conjecture became conclusion.

  “Charlotte.” He took her by the shoulders and kissed her soundly. “You are brilliant.”

  “What do you mean? All I said was that it couldn’t have been the same . . .”

  He watched as the same realization dawned in her eyes.

  “No,” she said. “You don’t think it was—”

  “It must have been. It all fits, doesn’t it? The money, the trips, the clues that don’t match . . . the reason he didn’t own up to the truth.”

  “It does.” She thumped him on the chest. “I told you they were mystery lovers, not tuppers. Admit it, I was right.”

  “Very well, you were right.”

  She grinned. “I’ll never let you forget it, either.”

  Piers wouldn’t have it any other way. She must always remain the optimist to his cynic, the laughter to his silence, the chaos to his order, the warmth to his cool. Their hearts would meet in the middle somehow.

  “Do we tell them we know?” she asked.

  “What would be the purpose?” He looked toward the door. “We’re due to announce our engagement at any moment. That is . . . if we are engaged. I don’t mean to presume, if you—”

  “Good heavens.” She put her hand in his and pulled him toward the door. “Of course we are. Let’s not start that again.”

  Piers was exceedingly glad to leave that question behind them, forever.

  They left the conservatory and rushed hand-in-hand down the corridor, heading for the dining room. Piers took the lead, weaving through the doorways and navigating the turns.

  They were halfway through the entrance hall when his ankle caught on something. A thin cord, stretched across the room.

  He had the presence of mind to release Charlotte’s hand immediately, so as not to take her with him. He stumbled toward the floor shoulder-first, hoping to transform his hapless fall into a debonair roll-and-recovery motion. But the moment he hit the parquet tile, he was smothered by something that dropped from above.

  A net. A heavy one, made of knotted rope.

  “Oho! Caught you now.”

  Piers groaned softly. He knew that voice.

  Edmund.

  Bloody hell. This was a new low. He’d been snared by an eight-year-old boy.

  Piers tried to maneuver onto his back so he could fling off the net. “Now, Edmund. Let’s discuss this like gentlem—augh.”

  Edmund crossed his arms and plopped his arse atop Piers’s stomach, pinning him down.

  “You dreadful boy.” Charlotte tugged on Edmund’s arm. “Get off him.”

  “Don’t hurt him too much,” Piers told her. “The Foreign Office may be offering him a post in ten years.”

  “MUR-DER! MUR-DER! MUR-DER!”

  Delia hurried into the hall. “Edmund! What are you doing? Release Lord Granville at once.”

  “Not until the magistrate comes. He’s got to be brought up on charges. Of murder.”

  Guests began filtering in from the dining room, drawn by the clamor. The servants, too.

  Wonderful.

  “That’s not even possible,” Charlotte said. “For there to be murder, there must be a victim. No one has died.”

  “Well, he tried a murder.” Edmund replied stoutly. “Tried to strangle Miss Highwood with a rope. His first night here, in the library.”

  A murmur went through the assembly.

  “Edmund, don’t be absurd,” Delia said. “You must have been mistaken.”

  “No, I weren’t. I heard it all.”

  “Delia, please listen,” Charlotte whispered. “I’ve been trying to tell you. The night of the ball, there was a misunderstanding.”

  “First,” Edmund declared, pleased to have a rapt audience, “I heard a squeaking. Eee-eee-eee-eee. Then . . .” He paused for dramatic effect. “Screams.”

  The quiet in the hall was unanimous. The crowd of people hung on the boy’s every sordid word.

  “And last,” Edmund said, “there was a noise like the very Devil groaning. Like this: Grrrrraaa—”

  “Grrrrrraaaagh.”

  “That’s it!” Edmund bounced on Piers’s chest. “See? It was him.”

  “Edmund, that wasn’t Lord Granville just now,” Delia said. “That noise came from the closet.”

  “The closet?”

  Everyone in the hall went silent.

  A series of distressingly familiar noises emanated from behind the closet door.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Piers tried to look at the bright side. Judging by the frantic rhythm, at least this time the lovers were well under way.

  Thump.

  “Oh!”

  Thump.

  “Urnph.”

  Thump-thump-thump-thump.

  And one last:

/>   “Grrrraaaaaagh.”

  After the noises mercifully ended, Edmund leapt to his feet, leaving Piers free to disentangle himself.

  Fists at the ready, the boy started to charge toward the closet door.

  Piers caught him by the back of his coat. “You don’t want to do that.”

  “Let me go!” he said, punching the air.

  “Miss Delia,” Piers said in a low voice, “please take your brother upstairs to the nursery. Now.”

  “Yes,” Charlotte agreed, grabbing Delia’s free hand. “Let’s all leave the hall, as a matter of fact. And be quick about it.”

  “But the murderer!” Edmund cried.

  It was too late.

  The closet door opened, and out tumbled a pair of red-faced, panting lovers with their hair mussed and clothing askew.

  Charlotte tried to cover Edmund’s view, but he dodged her hand. His eyes widened to saucers in his round, boyish face.

  “Father?” he asked in a small voice. “Wh-what were you doing to Mama?”

  Minutes later, Charlotte sat in the empty salon, staring blankly at her folded hands as they waited for Sir Vernon and Lady Parkhurst to make themselves presentable.

  “I’ve just realized something,” she said to Piers. “We are never, ever going to be able to tell our children how we met.”

  “We’ll come up with a convincing story,” he replied. “I’ve some experience with that.”

  “I suppose you do.” She looked up at the ceiling. “At least now Delia believes that I didn’t betray her. She’ll start speaking to me again.”

  She was looking forward to a good, long laugh about this with her best friend. Over generous glasses of sherry, ideally. There was so much to tell.

  “Poor thing,” she said. “She’s probably upstairs talking to Edmund about peaches and aubergines.”

  Piers tilted his head. “What is all this about aubergines, anyway?”

  Before Charlotte could explain, Sir Vernon and Lady Parkhurst entered the salon, closing the door behind them.

  Piers rose from the settee, waiting for Lady Parkhurst to settle into a chair before retaking his own seat. Ever the gentleman, even on an occasion so wildly bizarre as this one.

  “We first met at a masquerade,” Lady Parkhurst began. “I suppose it started then.”

  Sir Vernon broke in, gregarious as always. “I’m a sporting man. I can’t help it. I live for the hunt, a good chase.”

  “And I enjoy being pursued.”

  “Gets the blood pounding.”

  His wife briefly closed her eyes. “So we . . . play roles. Over the years, they’ve grown more elaborate. Vernon gives me a purse full of money, and I use it to create a new identity. New name. New gowns. Wigs, jewels, even servants. I write him a letter in the character’s voice, telling him when and where to find me, and then . . .”

  “And then you enjoy each other’s company,” Piers finished.

  Thank you, Charlotte silently replied. Beyond that, she had no desire for details.

  Lady Parkhurst went on, “Sometimes it’s gentleman and lightskirt, or travelers stranded at an inn. Lovers having a secret affair . . .”

  “Butler and chambermaid,” Charlotte supplied.

  “That, too.”

  “So it was you who brought the breakfast tray to my room that morning,” Charlotte said. “You were wearing a maid’s costume and a wig.”

  “Yes,” Lady Parkhurst confessed. “And I’m so sorry about the monkshood, dear. It was an accident, and it wasn’t my fault.” She slid a cutting glance at her husband. “The ‘butler’ did it. He mistook the flower for an iris.”

  “What do I know about flowers? It was purple and pretty.”

  “It could have killed her, Vernon.”

  “But it didn’t, now did it?” Sir Vernon gestured at Charlotte. “Look at her. She’s well enough now.”

  Charlotte squeezed Piers’s hand. She could sense him struggling not to unleash a tirade.

  “It’s true,” she said. “I am fully recovered. And I always assumed it was an honest mistake.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me the truth that first night?” Piers directed his question at Sir Vernon.

  “I would have gladly done so, Granville—in private, away from Edmund’s ears. But you leapt so quickly to offer for the girl, I didn’t have a chance. I thought perhaps there was something between you. After all, you were hiding behind the drapes together.”

  Charlotte exchanged a look with Piers. “That’s true, we were.”

  “And you weren’t mistaken, Sir Vernon.” Piers held her gaze. “There was something between us from the start.”

  Lady Parkhurst gave a relieved sigh. “I’m so glad it’s all worked for the best. Can we hope for your forgiveness?”

  “Yes, of course.” Charlotte rose and went to Lady Parkhurst, kissing her on the cheek. “You even have my thanks.”

  And, she admitted to herself, no small amount of her admiration.

  It was heartening to see a couple so clearly in love—and lust—after many years of marriage. She found it sweet, that they were still finding ways to surprise one another. It gave her hope for her own marriage to Piers. Whether they married tomorrow or years from now—settling down didn’t have to mean being settled.

  As for Edmund’s shock . . .

  Well, there were worse things for a child than confronting the evidence that his parents were in love.

  “Everyone’s returned to the dining room. They’ve likely lost their appetite, but one way or another—supper will nearly be over by now.” Lady Parkhurst smoothed her hair and skirts. “Considering the events of the evening, perhaps we should skip Vernon’s toast and proceed straight to your announcement?”

  Piers stood. “That would probably be best.”

  They followed their hosts down the corridor, but Piers stopped her just outside the dining room.

  “As I see it,” he said, “there are two ways we could handle this.”

  “Oh?”

  “I could make a staid, proper announcement of our intended nuptials, kiss the air above your hand, and engage you for the next minuet.”

  “Hm. Very lordly. What’s the second?”

  His left eyebrow quirked with wicked intent. “It involves declarations of mad, passionate love. Ample application of lips. Multiple waltzes where I hold you indecently close. Your brothers’ mild displeasure, a possible swoon from your mother’s quarter . . . and enough gossip to fill the next three issues of the Prattler.”

  Charlotte pretended to think about it.

  “What will it be, my love?” He offered his arm. “Shall we make a few stitches in your tattered reputation? Or do you want to start a scandal?”

  She threaded her arm through his. “With you? I’ll take the scandal any day.”

  Epilogue

  Three months later

  They rolled away from each other, collapsing on the pillows and bed linens, slick with sweat and panting for breath.

  For the moment, they were mutually sated—but only for the moment.

  Three months of abstinence couldn’t be undone in one go.

  Charlotte nestled her head on her husband’s bare chest. His strong arm wrapped around her, cinching her close. A gentle caress up and down her arm sent warm ripples of comfort through her languid body.

  There was nowhere else in the world she would have wished to be.

  He squinted up at the chandelier. “How the devil did my glove get all the way up there?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  She looked about the bedchamber. Discarded garments were everywhere. His shirt and waistcoat had been flung over the dressing table. Her stockings hung from the bedposts. Pools of petticoats lay on the floor, tangled with a pair of gray trousers. Her silk wedding dress with the delicate lace and seed pearls had been reduced to an exquisite heap on the carpet.

  “I promise, I will make an effort to be tidy,” she said. “But only after we spend the honeymoon tearing apart ever
y room in your house.”

  “First, darling—it’s now our house. Second, I feel obligated to warn you that Oakhaven has forty-six rooms.”

  “I’m up for the challenge if you are.”

  He rolled to face her and swept her naked body with a slow, desirous gaze. “Have no doubt. I will rise to the occasion.”

  She laughed. They’d seen each other regularly in the months leading up to their Christmas wedding. There’d been flowers to choose and menus to sort out and Mama’s lavish tastes to appease. They’d even managed to attend a few balls and make two appearances at the opera. However, they’d never been without a chaperone. Aside from a stolen kiss here and there, they’d been reduced to clasped hands and longing glances.

  How she’d missed this—not only the carnal pleasure he gave her, but simply cuddling and talking with him in bed.

  “Perhaps we’ll take on the bathing room next.” He rolled to a sitting position and dropped a sweet kiss on her lips. “But first, we could do with a bit of sustenance.”

  As he rose from the bed, Charlotte collapsed back on the mattress.

  Forty-six rooms. Lord.

  The scale of this bedchamber alone was palatial.

  Soon, she would have to reconcile herself to this grand house and the intimidating duty of being its mistress.

  However, for tonight, she need only pay attention to Piers. Her husband. Her friend. Her dearest love.

  Her expert tupper, on the right occasion.

  She rolled onto her side, propping herself on one elbow to watch him. She’d missed this sight, too. His lean, masculine body was a thing of beauty.

  She eyed him with possessive, shameless interest as he walked away from her—loving the way the muscles of his thighs and backside bunched and flexed—and stared with even bolder interest when he started back, bearing a silver tray laden with champagne and refreshments.

  A sigh escaped her. She was a lucky woman indeed.

  And, suddenly, a ravenous one.

  She sat up and tucked her feet beneath her thighs, and they enjoyed a sort of picnic in the center of the bed. Sandwiches, iced cakes and currant-studded scones, an array of cheeses and fruits. How did his cook find ripe, sweet apricots in December? A marvel.